Let's Roll
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: Munch and Fin watch curiously as a man is wheeled past the coffee shop window in an office chair. John and Fin at their finest, all based on a TRUE story!


"They saw "Weekend at Bernie's" and thought it was a documentary," Munch observed, as Fin cringed

"**Let's Roll" by Cardinal Robbins**

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

The following is based on a true story from the Associated Press wire service by Marcus Franklin on January 9, 2008. My sister saw the story and decided then and there I had to write a fic using the premise. While the names have been changed to protect the criminally stupid, this situation was perfect for something with Munch and Fin. SVU and all of its characters belong to Dick Wolf, but they're too much fun for me to resist writing about them.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

"I thought we were never gonna get a chance to eat," Fin Tutuola said, taking another bite of his cheeseburger. Having left the house too early and too quickly for breakfast, he'd ordered up the thickest burger Jiffy Bite could offer. It had the works, including a heavy slice of decent quality Cheddar and extra onions.

"You expect us to work together after you've eaten raw onion?" John Munch asked pithily. "Lucky for you, I brought along plenty of Listerine breath strips." He took another bite of his grilled roast beef, provolone and sauteed onion sandwich, chasing it with a sip of iced tea.

"You mean, lucky for you you've brough them along," Fin corrected. "Onion breath doesn't bother me. It's one more weapon to use aginst the perps."

"I think I'd rather be shot than deal with your oniony essence in a closed car," he countered. He saw something in his peripheral vision, something that didn't look right at all. He turned slightly in the ancient red leather covered booth to get a better view out of the large window to his left. "I've heard of not being able to afford a wheelchair, but this stretches the point until it snaps."

"Now that's messed up," Fin replied, watching as two men wheeled their friend past in the general direction of the Cash4U storefront a couple doors down, using an office chair for his conveyance. As Munch and Tutuola watched, the men struggled with their chair-bound friend as his head lolled to the side, his right arm flopping from his lap to point vaguely at the sidewalk. "You think he's drunk?"

"I'd hate to think of the alternative," John replied. "Wouldn't it be funny if the guy was dead?" He grinned at the thought, his perverse sense of humor usually irritating his partner.

But not this time. "Only you would think something that whack was funny," he decided, trying not to smile. "You think they're headed to the check cashing place?" He snagged the bill before John could, since the last two times he'd been beaten to the punch.

"Gee, ya think?" The gesture of picking up the check wasn't lost on Munch. "Thank you," he replied. "And yes, it has to be the check cashing place, unless they're training for the All Office Chair Relay." A wry smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Maybe we should keep these two under our expert observation."

"No way. The last time you wanted to watch some twisted scene play out, we were there with the unies for three hours and Cragen was pissed." Fin wanted no part of anything having the potential for his involvement, especially something patrol officers should handle. He also didn't want to be involved in anything John would be reading in the 'weird news' section of the Times tomorrow morning.

"Come on, let's go see what those guys are up to," John coaxed. "Please? A quick look, no uniforms, no complications." He was already halfway out of the well-worn booth, eager to see what three men and a rolling chair were all about.

"If you get me into one of your whack scenarios, bro, I'm next in line to pop a cap in your ass." Fin tried his best to make it sound convincing, but failed, being every bit as curious as Munch. He paid their tab and they left the coffee shop, just in time to see a crowd had gathered around the man in the chair. The hapless fellow, grimy in dirty jeans and a tattered chambray shirt, was right outside Cash4U's glass front door, pitifully slumped. He appeared to be Hispanic, with enough gray threading his dark hair to peg him at maybe fifty-five or older.

"If he is drunk, he's going to need a chiropractor when he wakes up," Munch said dryly.

"Man, I don't think he's gonna have to worry about it," Fin decided. He parted the crowd and shook the fellow's shoulder, the guy slumping entirely at the waist in response. John came up beside him and felt the man's neck for a pulse. "Gone?"

"Shuffled off this mortal coil," he replied. "Couldn't have been too long, because rigor hasn't set in." He motioned to the radio Tutuola carried. "Call it in, while I meet our illustrious would-be murders as they come out the door. Obviously those two think "Weekend at Bernie's" was a documentary."

Fin cringed, looking at Munch through narrowed eyes. "John, you're messed up." He heard hushed voices throughout the crowd as those gathered realized the man had been declared a corpse. Some took a step or two back, but almost all of them stared as if transfixed. "You people back the hell up and give us some room!" He flashed his badge to slam home his point, watching as most of them did as they were told.

"I know the guy!" Seventeen years old, a tall, skinny Jamaican pushed his way to the front. "Guy's name is Otis, he's from around the way. He goes into the place on the third of every month, mon, then goes to the bodega down the block."

Now we're getting somewhere," Fin replied. "You know his last name?"

"No, mon, he's always been Otis," the kid explained. "He got a bad back, he can't go too far. He got no family except those two in the place, lookin after him sometimes. Friends of his, get with him when he has cash, drinking at Reggie's down on Bettis street."

A siren's whoop cut through the noise of those still gathered, two uniforms finally breaking through the crowd.

Before they could say anything, the larger of the two men came out of the check cashing branch, surprised as Munch pulled him around and pressed him face-first against the front window. "Suspect Number One, care to tell me your name and how you killed your friend?"

"We'll go get the second one," the more experienced of the two uniforms decided. "EMS should be on their way for the stiff real soon." He laughed, the absurdity of the situation not lost on him. "Be sure and tell the vic not to take off on us, okay?"

"Go do your job, wise-ass," John quipped, a tight smile on his face. "Now you, start with your name and explain to me why you shouldn't be sent to Rikers."

"Get off me! I didn't kill anybody!" he yelled, as Munch pushed him a bit harder against the glass. "Okay!" As John ever so slightly relinquished his grip, allowing the man to draw a breath, he began to explain. "My name's Patrick…Bobby Patrick. I went over to see my buddy an' he wanted to cash his check is all. You're tellin' me he's dead?"

"Am I as stupid as you look? Don't start playing me, you got that?" He turned his quarry around and pinned him against the window by his shoulders, looking at him over his lenses. "You knew he was dead, because I saw you push him past the diner. At that point, he was flopping around like a whitefish on the docks. You couldn't even keep his head up, smart guy!" John didn't break his harrangue, even as EMS was easing Otis out of his makeshift wheelchair and on to a gurney. He was relieved when he distinctly heard one of the paramedics say something about it probably being a fatal heart attack.

"Yeah, okay, maybe I knew he wasn't feeling too good, but – "

"Save it, Bobby. Your friend gave you up," the shorter of the two uniforms said, bringing his accomplice out the door followed by Cash4U's manager. "We know the whole thing – how you both found him dead, saw he'd endorsed his Social Security check and made like you'd get some quick cash. You thought you could help yourselves to it, but the clerk needed Otis to show up in person."

He put the second perp, Ravi Gupta, into the back seat. "Don't waste your time," he said to John. "They're ours now, but thanks. Saved us the trouble of finding ol' Otis here after he was pushed into the middle of the street on that chair or something. They probably saw the office chair in his apartment and said, 'Let's roll.'"

"You're a sick puppy, Rodgriguez," John replied, having glanced down at his brass breastplate.

"C'mon, John," Fin said, "let's get out of here while we can. You told me no uniforms, no complications and you've already blown the part about the unies."

"You have to admit, it was unique," he replied, as the EMS unit left the scene – lights, but no need for sirens. They walked back to their unmarked, still shaking their heads over what they'd seen. "You know the worst thing of all?"

"Yeah," Fin said, looking at John over the roof of the car before they got in, "they're never gonna believe us, no matter how many times we tell this one."

# # #


End file.
